Chapter 1
Sebastian
“You won’t get any second chances this year, Sebastian. I made allowances for your poor grades while you recovered from your injury, but that won’t continue.”
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to remain silent in the wake of Dean Adler’s scolding.
His weathered face was not a kind sight, and there was a tiny piece of unidentifiable food hanging from his overgrown mustache.
It moved up and down as he berated me about my academic performance last semester.
Apparently, this school had only been willing to make exceptions for me when I was their star athlete.
Now that I was damaged goods in their eyes, that special treatment no longer applied.
“I can assure you my grades won’t be a problem this semester,” I told him. “I’m recovered and well.”
Recovered—yes. Well? That was an entirely different matter.
“Your academic advisor will be checking in with me on a regular basis. If there are any issues, I will know.”
I nodded politely in response, but my eyes conveyed something entirely different.
Fuck you, they said. Fuck you for treating me like a washout after everything I did for this school.
If I wasn’t so practiced in my control, I might have let the words slip.
But mouthing off wouldn’t do me any favors.
I couldn’t afford to piss anyone off, not with my future on the line.
Soon enough, the entire school—Dean Adler included—would realize how wrong they’d been to assume I was even close to finished.
“You’re free to go, Sebastian.”
I retreated from his stuffy office without so much as a goodbye.
In the past, Dean Adler had gone out of his way to kiss my ass.
After all, as the star of the hockey team, I was Dallard University’s golden boy.
Even after I tore my ACL, everyone was hopeful I’d make a quick return to the ice.
But my surgery had been more complicated than expected, which extended my physical therapy for several months, so I’d rushed back to the rink prematurely.
I’d wanted to prove that I was still the same player.
More importantly, I’d needed to show the Red Wings that I was ready for the big league.
But even after ten months of recovering, I wasn’t in the same shape I’d been in the year before, and my attempted return to the ice had been nothing less than mortifying.
After that, everyone was quick to forget my part in leading the men’s hockey team to their first national championship, as a sophomore no less.
All it took was one terrible performance for the dean to lose interest in his favorite toy.
It made me all the more determined to spend my final year proving everyone wrong.
Despite the early hour, campus was buzzing with activity as I emerged from the administrative building.
Over the last few days, students had trickled back into town as summer break came to an end.
With classes set to begin on Monday, the last-minute scramble to get ready for the semester had begun.
I set off for the hockey facility under the gaze of intrusive eyes, keeping to one of the tree-lined paths that cut through the school grounds.
Everyone at Dallard knew who I was, and that notoriety couldn’t be avoided.
Even before my injury, I’d never liked being goggled at.
I could tune out the attention on the ice, but it wasn’t just when I was playing: it was media interviews, student newspaper features, and a heightened profile once NHL scouts were involved.
After the initial story broke about my injury, the buzz had eventually quieted down.
There were a few articles speculating about my return to hockey, but I wasn’t interested in publicly discussing my healing process.
That didn’t curb the students’ interest in me, though.
If anything, people stared more than before, but now they looked at me like I was someone to be pitied.
Once I ducked into the safety of DuLane Arena, the tension in my shoulders released.
Since freshman year, the state-of-the-art training facility had served as my place of refuge.
Within these walls, I felt a deep sense of belonging.
On game days, the building was always packed with thousands of fans, but today the place was empty, and I gave myself a moment to bask in the solitude.
I spent most of my time in the lower levels of the DuLane.
The locker room was just below the arena, but even further underground was an expansive training facility, recovery center, a second rink, and several offices for the coaching staff and head trainer.
I took the set of elevators off the main entrance down to the locker room, holding my badge up to the sensor above the button panel and selecting B1.
Even after five years, the place still had that new-construction smell, with the exception of the locker rooms. Fortunately, they were bleached in the offseason, so there were no foul odors to turn my nose as I slipped inside.
Every inch of the room was bathed in Dallard blue and green, and a large, jet-black raven—the school mascot—was painted across the center of the floor.
After my miserable meeting with Dean Adler, I wanted nothing more than to lose myself on the ice.
In a matter of minutes, I was changed into my gear and walking through the sloped tunnel leading up to the rink entrance.
A burst of cool air hit my face as I entered the arena, and I was immediately met with the sound of blades carving through the ice.
An unfamiliar form flew over the recently zambonied rink, maneuvering through a long line of cones with a puck at the tip of his hockey stick.
I allowed myself a moment to appreciate the sight of him cutting across the ice in clean, precise sweeps.
He moved with a grace most guys spent years trying to perfect, as if the hockey stick was a natural extension of his arm.
I inched closer to the rink, eager to get a better look.
The player was slim, much smaller than the other guys on the team, and I wondered if he was a freshman.
You didn’t have to be massive to play hockey—if anything, size could be a hindrance—but this guy was tiny.
Despite his small stature, he clearly knew what he was doing.
Maybe the coaches thought they could bulk him up in time for next season.
They’d have to if they wanted him to survive the league.
He didn’t notice me until I slipped inside the players’ bench.
Ice shavings flew from beneath the blades of his skates as he came to an abrupt stop at the opposite end of the rink.
He glanced around, as if to check if anyone else was watching, before pushing off and heading in my direction.
When he was close enough that I could begin to make out his face behind the cage, he gripped underneath his helmet and pulled it off in one clean motion.
A thick brown braid fell over his shoulder.
No, not his shoulder—her shoulder.
She was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, several strands of her dark hair clinging to the skin around her face.
A pair of wide brown eyes fringed with thick lashes peered back at me in open curiosity.
Slowly, my gaze traced the outline of her arched eyebrows, traveling down the slope of her freckled nose and settling on a pair of slightly parted lips.
She had a dangerous mouth, one I was immediately tempted to taste.
Lips with the power to make me forget all about my girlfriend.
“What, never seen a girl before?” Her words came out in a teasing rasp that caused the hair on my arms to rise.
In that moment, I felt as if the entire English language had abandoned me. She was a wet dream come to life, my perfect woman. Someone who, based on the way she skated so effortlessly, knew the ice as deeply as I did. But why was she here? Only the men's team practiced at DuLane.
“What are you doing here?” It wasn’t my intension to sound so accusatory.
In truth, her appearance had caught me completely off guard.
But before I could apologize, an unexpected thought struck me—don’t explain yourself.
This girl was a stranger, one I didn’t owe anything.
The mere sight of her had rendered me speechless, and for the first time in three years, I was unsettled—uncertain, even—within the walls of DuLane Arena; it was a feeling I didn’t like.
She raised a brow. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“You must be new, so I’m happy to clear up any confusion,” I said, trying not to sound as rattled as I felt. “DuLane Arena is the men’s hockey facility. The women have their own facility—McKinley Rink. You’re not supposed to practice here.”
The girl stilled at my response. If I hadn’t been watching her so closely, I would have missed the subtle movement of her fingers tightening around the hockey stick.
“I know,” she said, the playful note in her tone vanishing.
Then why the hell was she here carving up my ice?
Before I could voice my question, she continued, “The women’s facility is on the other side of campus, and I don’t have a car to get my equipment over there. This rink was closer.”
“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” I said with a shrug. “You’re chewing up my ice.”
“Your ice?”
“Male hockey player”—I pointed to myself, then to the rink—“men’s ice.”
“Is it illegal for someone with boobs to skate here? I didn’t think guys your age were still afraid of getting cooties. Or maybe you’re just scared of being shown up by a girl?”
“Scared of what, exactly? You might be good for a girl, but you have nothing on me. In fact, you couldn’t keep up with anyone on the men’s team.
We’re bigger than you, faster than you, and more competitive.
The women have their own facility for a reason,” I explained, a smug grin on my face. “Use it next time.”